


Do not stand at my grave

by EowinSymbelmine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, pre-season 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 01:49:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18681679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EowinSymbelmine/pseuds/EowinSymbelmine
Summary: Even after almost two years, the pain was still too raw. And the best way to deal with it was to stand before the headstone, and talk to Sherlock as if nothing had ever happened.





	Do not stand at my grave

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Do not stand at my grave](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/478369) by Eowin Symbelmine. 



> Unbetaed and non-Britpicked. All mistakes are mine. If you see something, say something xD

John stared at the gleaming black headstone and kneeled carefully, laying off the weight from his sore leg first. Ever since that cursed day, his leg started to act up once more; he needed the cane again, to be able to hobble around without straining himself. He leaned it against the grave marker, and caressed the golden lettering that marked the final resting place of his dearest friend, the most important person in his life in the past few years (was it so little time, really? It felt like all his life), the one who loved him so much that it had gladly gave his own life to keep him and their friends safe. John looked around; it was a cold, but sunny day, and many people milled about the small cemetery, quietly and respectfully. A couple meters forward, a woman clutched the hand of a little girl, laying a bunch of lillies against a weathered headstone; to his left, a young man was seated, clutching his knees before a new marker, his chin resting against his knees. John cleared his throat and started his now familiar routine.

“Hi, there, Sherlock. I know it’s been a while since I was able to come here, and I’m so sorry. Caught a bad case of pneumonia, and it took me some time to bounce back. You know what they say, doctors make the worst patients.” He laughed, bitterly. “Mrs. Hudson was the one to take care of me; she’s the only one who can stand me these days. People aren’t able to be around me long nowadays, Sherlock; I’m turning into a worse hermit than you.”  He paused, feeling the strangeness of the scene; kneeling before a tombstone, talking to his long gone friend as if he was there. John was able to see Sherlock listening to him, stretched on the battered sofa of 221B, hands clasped together before his face, shrewd eyes glinting, sharp tongue harshly commenting on John’s sappy stupidity. 

“Greg sends his best, by the way. He and Mycroft are out of the country, God only knows where. You should see those two together; I’m sure it would give you enough material to torment them both till Kingdom come.” John smiled softly. The only good thing born from all this tragedy was that: the Ice Man finally admitting that he had a heart, and that it had belonged to the Detective Inspector for a long time. “They’re working hard to clear your name from all that, Sherlock. Whatever the reason you had to resent your brother, I’m sure you would forgive him if you were able to see the lengths he’s going to.” He stoped talking and took a deep breath, trying to still the quivering of his voice. “Molly hasn’t sent any news yet, since she went to Bournemouth. I think she couldn’t handle it very well… none of it. But I think not one of us could handle it at all, right?” He let out another hollow laugh, chest heavy and eyes burning, and kept going, voice lower and hesitant. 

“My nightmares are back, Sherlock. Only they’re not about the war anymore. Every single night, I watch you die. I’ve seen you dying hundreds of times, in my dreams… I saw you opening your arms, and throw yourself from that  _ bloody  _ roof again, and again, and again… and everytime I wake up, and I realize it wasn’t merely a nightmare, it was a  _ fucking  _ memory… that I’ll go down to the living room and you won’t be lazing about the sofa, or draped over your chair, or sitting behind that  _ blasted  _ microscope, dealing with  _ God-only-knows  _ what poison…” he paused, choked, the burning in his eyes unbearable, the weight of all the things he  _ wished  _ he had said, of all the things he  _ should  _ have said crushing him. “It  _ hurts _ . It hurts like  _ hell _ . But everyday, I’m getting better at handling the pain. Maybe, after almost two years, two  _ hellish  _ years, I’m finally getting used to live without you.” he rubbed his eyes roughly, before the tears could fall on his emaciated face. “But I didn’t  _ want to have  _ to get used to it. You were an utter arse, leaving me alone like this, Sherlock. You...  _ bastard _ . After you rescued me from myself, after you gave me a reason to live again, giving me purpose… leaving me like this. I know you did what you thought was right. I know now that Moriarty had us all under gunpoint; all your pressure points. I’m so  _ sorry  _ I was a weakness for you, Sherlock,  _ so sorry _ … especially after you were my source of strength through all these years.”

John took a deep, cleansing breath, and braced himself against the headstone, rising with difficulty. He kissed his fingertips and grazed the golden lettering once again, tracing the “S” lovingly.

“I love you, Sherlock. You were, and still are, my best friend. And I’ll love you until we’re together again, wherever you are.” Taking a step back, he dried one last, furtive tear, and smiled weakly. “See you next week.”

John walked away slowly, and noticed that the young man seated at his left now had his face buried in his knees, sobbing uncontrollably, his whole body shuddering. The doctor hesitated a moment, but his caretaker instincts were stronger. Approaching slowly, he laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. A pair of deep brown eyes, red and puffy from crying, framed by thick-rimmed glasses, looked up at him, astonished. The face was covered by a carefully groomed beard, and the fiery red hair fell in soft waves over his forehead.

“D’you need any help?” John asked, voice tender. The man shaked his head and rubbed his eyes behind the lenses.

“Thanks, I...” the voice was hoarse from crying, but was soft and low, with a heavy southern American accent. “I just never thought it would hurt  _ so much _ .” he stared at the grave marker before him, still smooth and empty, no name or dates yet. John squeezed his shoulder in a comforting manner.

“I know that, right now, it seems like things will never get better, and all you want to do is sit in a corner and forget that the rest of the world is still there… but it will get better. The pain will never disappear, but it will get bearable. Everyday, it gets a little more bearable.”

“You really believe that?”

“That belief is the only thing that gives me the strength to get out of bed by morning” John leaned heavily in his cane. “That, and knowing that, one day, for sure, I’ll see him again.” he sighed sadly and left, without another word. His back was not looking so curved anymore, and his limp wasn’t so bad than it was when he arrived at the graveyard. The young man watched him walk away with a longing stare, hand outstreched as if trying to touch the retreating figure. 

“Are you satisfied?” the female voice startled him, and he looked up. The hair was now a light, golden blond, but the deep blue eyes were still as sharp as ever. The little girl was strikingly similar to the mother, and he never asked who the father was; neither had she offered the information. “Do you understand how risky that was, Sherlock? We have no idea of Moran’s whereabouts. He could be following Doctor Watson as we speak, for all we know.” He suppressed a shiver and raised, long limbs strecthingly elegantly, all hesitance gone.

“I do understand, Irene. I just… I needed to see him. Even for a moment.” He inhaled deeply, tooking the little girl’s other hand in his. “Besides, he didn’t recognize me at all; and if  _ John  _ can’t recognize me, then I know my disguise is foolproof”

“Really, the stages lost a brilliant performer when you decided to be a detective. Not even your own  _ mother  _ would know you like this.”

They left the cemetery, holding hands, as if they were just a young family grieving a loved one. It was time to go into hiding again. A single thought rolled around Sherlock’s mind: “ _ Soon, John. Hold on, just a little longer. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration and title of the fic came from Mary Elizabeth Frye’s poem, famous amidst the fandom. Here’s the full version, for that extra dose of ~~feels~~  
> Do not stand at my grave and weep,  
> I am not there; I do not sleep.
> 
> I am a thousand winds that blow,  
> I am the diamond glints on snow,  
> I am the sunlight on ripened grain,  
> I am the gentle autumn rain.
> 
> When you awaken in the morning’s hush  
> I am the swift uplifting rush  
> Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
> I am the soft stars that shine at night.
> 
> Do not stand at my grave and cry,  
> I am not there; I did not die.


End file.
